I can’t tell you how good it feels to write something down and not judge the beauty out of it. To be in a headspace that allows freeform creativity without you telling yourself that what you have just written is utter bullshit and not worth the ink and paper on which it’s tattooed upon.

Maybe you know the feeling, but for me it has been almost 6 years since that feeling. When I used to come home from work at 4 am and just lie on the couch I slept on writing for hours. Listening to the soundtrack of American Beauty with Thee More Shallows, Tori Amos, and Rocky Votolato sprinkled throughout. Blasting from an HP that was borrowed from a future sister-in-law running some version of Windows with WinAmp as the music player. I add these details for context of history. How long it has been since I have felt any sort of confidence in my creative self.

I’m not sure how long it will last, but I know enough not to dwell on a detail like that. I know that I want to keep my head clear and power through an idea that started years ago in a studio basement apart in the ghetto. A cat sleeping on a piano, a computer in the living room on a kitchen table belonging to my paternal grandmother. Drinking coffee and listening to Mew, Nine Inch Nails, and more than likely, The Sisters of Mercy.